


Ghost Story

by Qzil



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Ghosts, Gift Fic, Haunted Houses, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-24
Updated: 2015-09-24
Packaged: 2018-04-23 05:56:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4865579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Qzil/pseuds/Qzil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Meg Masters moves into her new house, she thinks that everything is perfectly normal. But then cold spots start appearing, things begin moving on their own, and, and lights mysteriously flicker on and off. Soon, she finds herself mixed up in a ten year old, unsolved murder, and finds that she may be the next target.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BleedingInk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BleedingInk/gifts).



Meg’s new house wasn’t anything special.

It wasn’t beautiful or big. It wasn’t old enough to be considered historical, but it wasn’t new enough to be considered truly _new._ The yard wasn’t big, the landscaping wasn’t nice, and the porch wasn’t exactly intact. The paint wasn’t exactly in good condition, having been weathered by the elements until it resembled old dirt, and the shutters weren’t the kind that closed over the window.

But it was _hers._ Finally, after years of slaving away as a nurse at the High School, squirreling away every penny she could, she had a place of her own. A place where she wouldn’t have to hear her upstairs neighbors fighting or his downstairs neighbor playing his crappy Bible music at three in the morning. The new house was close enough to the High School that she could walk to it on sunny days in the mornings, but far away enough that the kids probably wouldn’t bother her.

It would need some work, but other than that, it was perfect.

“You sure about this, sis?” her brother, Tom, asked as he slid up to her. He awkwardly shifted the box holding her plates around. “This place looks like someone died here.”

“Someone probably did,” Meg said dryly. “But a little paint, maybe some new stairs for the porch, and it should be fine.”

As if on cue, one of the shutters on the front window gave a groan and dropped off the house and into the overgrown bushes. Meg frowned as Tom shot her an _I told you so_ look.

“The foundation, electric, and plumbing are solid,” Meg informed him. “The windows, too. The outside needs most of the work.”

“It’s so tiny, though.”

Meg fished into her pocket for her keys. “I like small. Besides, I don’t need a lot of room. Now c’mon.”

The key slipped into the lock easily. Meg smiled when she crossed the threshold and stood in the middle of her new house. She led Tom down the small hallway that eventually spilled into the kitchen and living room and gestured in a circle, beaming.

Tom raised his eyebrows and set his box down on the counter. “Meg, this place is a shithole.”

Meg rolled her eyes. “No, it’s not. It’s _quaint.”_

“It’s a shithole,” Tom repeated. “There’s a goddamned rug. In the kitchen!”

Meg shrugged. True, the kitchen, which was separated from the living room by only small breakfast bar, had an ugly red rug on the floor instead of tile or linoleum. The rug continued into the living room and small dining room. The walls were an ugly shade of gray throughout the house.

“The rug can be ripped up.”

“Who knows what you’ll find under there? Meg, I can’t believe you bought this piece of crap!”

“I bought it because I like it,” Meg snapped. “It has _potential.”_

“You and dad watch far too much HGTV.”

Meg huffed and stomped toward the door. “Whatever. Help me get the rest of my shit outta the moving van.”

.

Later that night, Meg tucked herself into bed in her not quite old, but not quite brand new house, and smiled to herself. School was over, and she had the whole summer to fix the place up to her liking. Tom would help her, if she pestered him enough. It would take a chunk of her savings and a lot of work, but she could do it.

Drifting off, she failed to notice that she had left her bedside lamp on. Once she was asleep, it flickered off by itself.

.

Standing in the middle of the living room, Castiel adjusted his tie and sighed.

The house had sat abandoned for months before showings started, but once again it seemed he had a roommate. The young woman who had shown up seemed nice enough, he supposed, but he hoped she wasn’t planning on changing too much. He liked his house the way it was.

Although, he had to admit that her furniture, what little she had, was pretty nice. And her television was far nicer than any of the TVs he had owned in life, or any of the TVs that the home’s previous two owners had brought with them.

But, he figured, as long as she was quiet and didn’t make too much of a mess, and didn’t go digging into the home’s history, they would get along just fine.

Raising his hand to his head, Castiel fingered the jagged flesh of his forehead.

He had been murdered in his own home nearly ten years prior, two days shy of his twenty-eighth birthday. He’d been ready to slip out the door to go to his sister’s wedding when he’d realized that his tie was on backward and the man had appeared, coming from the living room.

Castiel had never seen the man’s face, only his own expression in the hall mirror as he heard the click of the gun and felt cold metal being pressed against the back of his head. Then there had only been red.

When he’d woken several hours later, the mirror was cracked and painted with blood, there was crime scene tape across his door, and his body was nowhere to be found. He’d promptly tried to walk out the door and found himself in the living room, blinking in confusion.

It had only taken him a few hours to accept that he was a ghost.

As far as Castiel knew, the man who had murdered him had never been caught. The paper boy continued to deliver newspapers for a few weeks after Castiel’s death, but they were too far outside of the house for him to reach. By the time his house had been cleaned and sold, the story of his murder had died down, and there wasn’t anything in the newspapers about it.

The first couple who had bought the house had lived there for six years. They were elderly, quiet, and liked to have their grandchildren visit. But then the wife had fallen sick and died in the hospital, and the husband had moved in with his daughter, and the house had been put back on the market, much to Castiel’s disappointment. He’d liked the old couple, and had been hoping that, when they died, they did it at home so he would have some company.

The next owners of the house had been far too noisy for his liking. They were young, drank long into the night, and blasted music that would’ve given him headaches if he still had a body. They were messy and broke things and didn’t take care of the house. He was relieved when the mother of one of the boys, who was paying for the rent on the house that the old man still owned, showed up and hauled them home.

Then Castiel had heard that the old man had died as well, and his son and daughters were planning on selling the house.

The new woman seemed nice, and he’d heard her talk about redecorating a bit. He hoped her sense of style wasn’t too eccentric.

But he’d already had to turn a lamp off for her.

He’d gotten used to doing that with the old couple. Both the husband and the wife had been a bit forgetful, so he’d found himself moving glasses onto coasters and turning off lights when they forgot to. It felt nice, to be useful.

Taking a last look around the living room, Castiel sighed and sank into one of the new chairs. With a flick of his eyes he turned the television on, made sure the volume was low, and settled in for another long night.

.

Castiel quickly decided that the new woman was _insane._

He tried to stay out of the way of the living, hiding in the attic or hovering near televisions or radios to catch a glimpse of the outside world, but he was fascinated by his home’s new occupant.

She started work on the house on her very first morning there, spreading out old sheets and painting while the radio hummed in the background and she sang along to it. Her music choices were absurd, and her voice was horrible, but she didn’t seem to notice either of those things, happily screeching along with the radio.

Then he’d noticed the paint and had to fight the urge to scare her out of his home.

She’d painted his dining room _electric green._

.

In the end, Meg loved her house.

It had taken a large chunk of change, but she’d gotten the carpets ripped up, and had been delighted to find hardwood under them. After some fixing up, they looked almost as good as new. Good enough that Meg liked them, anyway. She’d painted the outside of the house back to a lovely white, but had gone crazy on the inside, picking whatever colors caught her eye. The dining room was electric green, the kitchen and living room were a bright, hot pink, and her bedroom was a plumb color. She’d painted the spare bedroom bright yellow and had found a nice orange for the front hallway. The bathroom was the only room that she’d left gray.

Then she’d unpacked her knick knacks. The cow skull her father had given her for her seventeenth birthday went perfectly in the living room, just above her television. Her collection of decorative ashtrays went on shelves in the kitchen. Her collection of interesting pipes took up residence in her room.

Finally, finally done, Meg reclined in her chair and flicked the TV on, frowning when she saw how low the volume was. She could’ve sworn that she’d had it up high the day before when she went to bed.

Shrugging, Meg turned the volume up, cracked open her beer, and relaxed.

.

Castiel was pretty sure that insanity was the only way to explain his new roommate.

He learned that her name was Meg, that she liked classic rock, weird colors, and horror movies that made him think he could still feel nauseous despite his lack of a physical body. She drank too much beer, left the door open when she showered, sung in the shower, and was prone to leaving her clothes all over her bedroom floor and her wet towels there as well.

Her eating habits were a mystery to him. She ate far too much take out, and when she did cook at home, he couldn’t find one healthy thing in her dishes. She ate hot dogs and hamburgers and when he looked in the fridge he couldn’t fine one piece of fruit.

The woman was clearly insane, and he had no idea how she was still alive.

Beyond that, she was messy. He had never exactly been the cleanest person, but he had been organized. The closet where Meg stored her linens was a mess, the sheets and pillowcases thrown in without a care. The towels and washcloths hadn’t fared much better.

So, he wasn’t the cleanest person when he was alive. But he still faced all his folds the same way and picked his clothes up off the floor. And used coasters, which Meg was apparently incapable of doing.

After two months of living with her, Castiel opened the fridge and decided that things could not continue the way they were. Despite her eccentricities, Meg was a huge improvement over the college boys, and he wanted to keep her for a while.

Using his powers to float the beer out of the fridge, he made a plan.

.

Meg came home that day, stretched, and strolled into the kitchen for a beer before she set about making dinner. She had some microwaveable slop to heat up, but she was too tired to cook for herself, especially after spending all day preparing to go back to school. The meeting would’ve gone well, if not for Fergus Crowley, the slimy Latin teacher who always gave her creepy smiles. He had spent the entire meeting staring at her, insulting her under his breath, and generally making her uncomfortable.

She hated dealing with him. His family was weird, but had lived in town for generations, all of them piled into one house near the outskirts of town at an isolated little crossroads. They were a quiet and isolated bunch, but essentially harmless, if just slimy and weird. But now that she was home, she could have a couple of beers, relax, and not think about how she had to deal with him for another year.

She looked at the counter and frowned.

All but two of her beer cans were open, empty, rinsed out, and stacked neatly on the counter, ready to go into the recycling. When she opened her fridge, she saw that the bagged salad she’d bought the previous day sitting in front of everything else, along with a bottle of dressing and her apple juice.

Blinking, she shut the fridge and stepped back. “What the fuck. Did I sleep-organize my fridge again?”

She’d had a problem sleepwalking when she was younger, but she thought that it had been corrected. And she definitely wouldn’t have gotten rid of her beer. Or moved the bagged salad to the front of the fridge.

Pushing it out of the way, Meg reached for one of the last beers in the fridge and slammed the door shut. There had to be a reasonable explanation for things.

.

Over the next few weeks, Meg began to think that Tom was right when he said the house was a shithole.

There had to be drafts somewhere, because every time she showered, the bathroom door swung shut on its own. Despite the fact that she had be assured that the electricity was solid, the lights would sometimes flicker in the middle of the night while she watched a movie, and the volume of the television would spontaneously lower itself. The station on her radio would switch from the classic rock station to the Christian rock station, and something had to be blowing her curtains open in the mornings so the sunlight hit her _just so_ in the face, waking her up far before she had to be up and ready for school. There were random spots of cold all over the house that lingered no matter how high she turned up the heat.

The towel from her shower would mysteriously hang itself back up when she was certain that she had left it on the floor. When she opened her linen closet to change her sheets, she found that they were neatly stacked and that all of the folds were facing the same way, when she was certain that she’d just thrown them in the closet and promised to sort them out later.

Something fishy was going on, and she was going to get to the bottom of it.

.

Castiel liked being helpful.

In truth, Meg’s messiness didn’t annoy him, because it gave him something to do all day while he was housebound. It felt good to straighten up like the house was still his. He had to close the door while she was showering, though. He supposed that quite a few people who lived alone left their doors open while they were in the bathroom, but he had no urge to intrude on her privacy, even if he was a ghost. He straightened her linens, moved her cups onto coasters when she wasn’t looking, and opened her curtains in the morning to make sure that she was up and ready on time.

He did discover, however, that he wasn’t as in control of his powers as he thought. Horror movies still got the best of him from time to time, particularly the bloody ones that his roommate favored. When he was frightened, he would lose control of his powers and set the light flickering, or the volume on the television would plummet. Meg seemed to notice, too. He caught her walking through the house carefully, glancing over her shoulder and double-checking that her lights were off or her curtains were closed at night. He was careful to keep himself hidden, trying to keep his powers under control. He knew that he could appear to people, if he really wanted, but he was embarrassed by his appearance, and did not wish to scare her.

.

Meg _knew_ something fishy was going on, and she’d had enough of it.

“What do you think, Pamela?” she asked her friend as she led her into the house. “Feel anything?”

Pamela, the pretty, young Home Ec teacher who always claimed she was physic and that the school was haunted by the ghost of an old janitor, tilted her head to the side and set her hand on the wall. “Huh.”

“Was that a good huh or a bad huh?”

“Just a huh,” Pamela answered. She tossed her dark hair over her shoulder and strode further into the home. “Well, something definitely feels _off_ here. Specifically by the wall.”

Meg frowned. “Well, nothing’s happened, so.”

“You do know that realtors don’t have to tell you everything that happened in the house, right?” Pamela asked. “Did you do any of your own research on who might have died in the house, or anything? Because it feels really, really weird in here.”

“I didn’t look anything up. I just got the plumbing and electricity and foundation and shit checked. Who cares if someone died here?”

“Well, if someone died here, that means that they’re probably the one haunting you,” Pamela explained. “Honestly, Meg.”

“Well, if there is someone here, they haven’t done anything bad. Just annoying.”

“Annoying?”

“Like throwing out my beer and straightening my sheets. I don’t even know why I invited you here. There’s no such thing as ghosts. This is stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” Pamela insisted. “It’s caution. It might be harmless stuff now, but it could progress into something worse in the future. Ghosts will sometimes start off doing mundane things to test the water, and then do things that are worse and worse when you ignore them. You could wake up one day with scratches and bruises and not know where they came from.”

The front door flew open on its own, banging angrily against the wall.

Pamela jumped. “Oops. I think I made it angry. I should probably go.”

“Wait, you’re saying my house _is_ haunted?” Meg screeched as Pamela retreated. “Pamela! Come back here! Pamela!”

“I’ll see you at work on Monday!” Pamela called over her shoulder. “Meg, you’re a nice girl, but I’m not messing with this shit, not without more info!”

Meg stared through the open door as Pamela retreated to her car and sped off. A moment later, the door slowly shut. Meg glared at the wood and stomped her foot. Pamela didn’t return, and nothing else happened.

“Haunted my ass. She’s probably just trying to scare me,” Meg muttered. “Ghosts aren’t real. This is all a load of bullshit.”

She’d forgotten to buy more beer when she stopped at the store, so she poured herself a glass of lemonade instead. She took a sip, wrinkled her nose in distaste when the bitter flavor hit her tongue, and set the glass on the table while she turned to root through her cabinets for some sugar.

“You know,” said a gravely voice behind her. “Using a coaster would not kill you. I’m dead, so I would know.”

Meg jumped and whirled around, scattering the sugar all around her as she went. For a moment she thought she saw the form of a tall man with dark hair and blue eyes standing next to her table. He was dressed in a suit and tan trenchcoat. There was evidence of a bullet wound on his forehead.

His tie was on backward.

She blinked and the man was gone. But her drink lifted on its own. She watched as one of her coasters floated toward the table until it was under her drink. The glass gently settled on top of it.

A heartbeat passed. She felt her hands shake. The man did not return.

Meg screamed and bolted for the door, barely remembering to grab her cell phone and keys as she flew toward her car. She’d completely forgotten her shoes and purse, but she didn’t care. She jumped into her car and furiously dialed her friend Ruby’s number.

“Ruby. I need to borrow some shoes. And your laptop. And stay at your place tonight,” she rambled as soon as Ruby picked up. “I’ll tell you when I get there. Just. I can’t stay in the house tonight.”

Ruby grumbled, but told Meg to come over. The pedals were rough against her bare feet, and she had to control her breathing to make sure that she didn’t go over the speed limit. If she got pulled over with no shoes and license, the cops wouldn’t exactly believe that she was fleeing her own home because she’d seen a ghost. They’d probably haul her off to the mental ward and keep her there.

.

Castiel paced the living room.

He’d _scared_ her.

It hadn’t been intentional. He’d lost his temper when her friend was there, when he should’ve known to control it better. He was ready to slink off to the attic after that, but then Meg had called him _annoying._

When he was only trying to _help her._

Walking into the kitchen, he sighed and floated her glass of lemonade toward the sink to pour it out. Condensation had gathered on the glass, and there was a wet spot on the coaster. A wet spot that, thanks to him, wouldn’t leave a ring.

He rinsed the glass out and deposited it in the drying rack before he summoned the broom and dustpan from the cupboard and set them to sweeping up the spilled sugar. Meg would have to come home eventually, and he didn’t want her to come back to sticky floors, especially when it was his fault that she’d spilled the sugar in the first place.

He’d have to apologize when she got home. He just wasn’t sure _how._

He floated upstairs into the guest bedroom that she was using as her home office and poked around a bit. When he opened of the drawers, he saw printer paper and colored pens. Smiling, he called up memories of playing with his sisters as a child and set about making his apology.

.

Meg returned the following morning armed to the teeth.

She’d spent the night at Ruby’s apartment researching ghosts. She hadn’t had time to find any evidence on violent happenings in her house, but she had found a few ways to keep the ghost from coming near her until she could call the priest to get rid of it. Ruby had thankfully agreed to lend her a pair of flats while she went to the store.

Her new cross necklace was heavy around her neck, the bag of salt she was carrying made her arms ache, and the new iron fireplace poker was sharp and ready for action. All she had to do was use them.

Her Ouija board from Toys R Us made her feel a little foolish, but she figured it was her best bet at contacting the spirit in her house and getting him to leave on his own. She really, really didn’t want to call the priest or Pamela to get rid of it.

She carefully unlocked the house and stepped into the hall, holding the fireplace poker in front of her protectively. The door didn’t slam on its own, no lights flickered, and there were no strange noises in the house. She cautiously continued down the hallway, dropping the poker in shock when she walked into the kitchen.

It was spotlessly clean, with no evidence of the sugar she’d spilled or any of the other little crumbs that had been scattered around her toaster. The floor gleamed with fresh polish, and the dishes that she’d left in the sink were clean and set in the drying rack. There was a bouquet of carefully-folded paper roses resting on the middle of the table, each one colored with a different colored pen. Folded in front of them was a small piece of paper that simply said _sorry_ in small, cramped handwriting.

She continued through the rest of the house. The beds in the upstairs rooms were neatly made, with the curtains pulled and tied back to let in the sun. The floors were freshly vacuumed. The bathroom was spotlessly clean and smelled like bleach. Every surface was freshly dusted.

She returned to the kitchen and carefully picked up one of the paper roses.

“Huh. So, looks like I’ve got a clean ghost.”

She unpacked the Ouija board, closed the curtains, and flicked the lights off. Lighting two of the candles that she’d packed for emergency blackouts, she settled them on either side of the board and gently placed two fingers on the planchette.

“You needn’t bother with those things,” the gravely voice from the night before interrupted. Her other chair pulled itself away from the table.

Meg pulled her hands into fists to stop them from shaking. “You’re a ghost?”

The planchette slid to the yes space at the same time the voice spoke. “I am. Oh, dear. I did not mean to do that.”

Meg swallowed hard. “Why can’t I see you? I saw you before.”

“That was an accident,” the voice said. “My appearance would be startling. I apologize for losing control like that.”

“Show me,” Meg demanded. “You did it before. Show me. I don’t like talking to nothing.” The planchette on the board slid to the _no_ space. Meg jumped involuntarily.

“I apologize.”

“Can you tell me your name, at least?” she asked. The voice didn’t answer her. Instead, the planchette moved across the board, pausing on a few letters.

“Cas-t-iel,” she said slowly.

“Yes.”

“You got a last name?”

“No.”

“I can easily find out, you know. All I have to do is ask around and see who got murdered here.”

The flames on the candles blew out, plunging the room into darkness. The ghost sounded angry. “Who told you that?”

“I guessed,” she said dryly. She reached for her lighter when the ceiling lights flickered and then blazed bright.

“I told you, you needn’t bother with such silly things,” Castiel said. The candles moved away from her, hovered in the air for a moment, and then flew back into the designated cupboard. Meg stared with her mouth hanging open. “I am not a trickster. I will talk to you openly.”

“But not let me see what you look like?”

“As I said, my appearance is less than neat.”

“I highly doubt it could be worse than what happened before,” she pointed out. Meg heard a loud sigh and the lights flickered again. When they stopped, a man was sitting opposite her.

He had a square jaw covered with stubble and dark hair that was sticking up every which way, as if he’d just rolled out of bed or run his fingers through it. His eyes were a bright, clear blue. He was dressed formally, as if going to work or to a wedding, in a nice suit with a tan trench coat over it. The only thing that distracted from his appearance was the fact that his dark blue tie was on backward.

That, and the jagged hole in his forehead that was dark with blood.

Meg stared at it. “Huh. That the exit side?”

Castiel looked embarrassed. He held his hand to his head self-consciously. “Yes. The bullet entered from the back of my head. I’ve never seen what that side looks like.”

“It’s probably smaller,” she told him, struggling to find something else to say. She pinched herself, wincing when she felt the pain. It was really real, and not some dream. “You’ve been the one straightening the sheets and hanging up the towels and closing doors?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve been the one throwing out my beer?”

This time he didn’t look embarrassed. “You drink far too much of it. Some water would be healthier. Or juice. Have you ever even eaten a salad?”

Meg ignored him. “Are you the one making the water get cold? Or is there a plumbing issue?”

“You should shorten your showers. It saves water. Also, I read once that rinsing your hair with cold water before you exit the shower is good for it.”

“Well, knock it off. I like long showers and I like my beer,” she grumbled. “The lights flickering when I’m watching movies?”

“A few of them scare me. When I feel intense emotions, it is harder to control myself.”

“You’re dead. How can a horror movie scare you?”

He winced. It made lines appear in the corners of his eyes, but they only served to make him look more handsome. “Just because I am dead doesn’t mean that I don’t have emotions. Some of those films are terrifying.” He paused and lowered his eyes. “Do you really find my help annoying?”

“Sometimes,” she admitted. “Things moving on their own overnight and your beer pouring itself out isn’t exactly _helpful.”_

He winced. “I apologize.”

She reached over and grabbed the paper roses and apology card. “You did that already. Accepted.”

He nodded. “Are you going to sell the house now?”

“Do you want me to?” she asked seriously. “You’re not going to, like, scratch me up or throw my stuff at me to try to get me out, are you?”

He shook his head. “No. It is nice to have a roommate again. The last two people who stayed here weren’t clean, or quiet. The old couple before them was nice. They never noticed if I moved things around to help them find it easier or if things were moved around in their fridge.”

“Well, maybe lay off pouring my beer out and pulling the curtains open at unreasonable times of the day.”

“I do not want you to oversleep.”

“I have alarm clocks.”

“It is possible to sleep through an alarm clock,” he pointed out. “Besides, you should let some light in. It warms the house up.”

Meg snorted. “Fine. Is there anything you’d like me to do?”

“Please close your doors while showering or changing, and please refrain from walking about the house in a state of undress,” he requested.

She quirked an eyebrow. “What? Am I not pretty?”

Meg could’ve sworn she saw the ghost blush, but it was gone in a moment. “No,” he said. “It is just improper.”

She nodded. “Alright. Fine. How’s this even going to work, though? Us living together like this? And put your hand down. You look ridiculous.” Castiel slowly lowered his hand, his eyes trained on her face. Meg swallowed and looked straight into his eyes, avoiding the hole in his head. She gestured for him to speak.

“You could pretend this meeting never happened and just feign ignorance to the weird things that sometimes happen,” he suggested. “You could just ignore me when I do things, and if I do something that _annoys_ you, you could just shout it out. I’ll hear you, wherever I am. I’m usually nearby. Meanwhile, I will stop throwing out your beer and I will remember to turn the volume of the television up before I retire for the night.”

“Do you even sleep?” she asked.

“Not exactly. It’s more like a trance. I have no need to sleep, or do any resting, but it passes the time. It’s more like…”

“When your computer is on screensaver mode?” she guessed.

“Similar, yes. That is the best way I can describe it.”

She nodded. “Okay. So, those are the terms?”

“I suppose. Pick the option you like.”

Meg shrugged. “Well, we could hang out occasionally, I guess. I don’t do much since I work a lot.”

“I’ll…see. I’m not really used to interacting with the people who share my home.”

“Well, in that case. I’m going to pack up this stupid board and make myself some lunch. And you’re not going to touch the heater no matter how high I put it up this winter,” she said.

Castiel smiled. “I think that reasonable.”

.

They fell into an uneasy pattern. She didn’t see Castiel again, but she knew when he was around because the air in the house suddenly felt colder. It hadn’t been a problem in the summer, because she’d had her air conditioning on, but now that fall was flying by and winter was settling in, she noticed it more and more. She took to wearing sweaters in the house, because the cold when he was around couldn’t be beaten by the heater. Castiel responded by pulling out her winter blankets from the attic while she was at work and setting them in strategic locations throughout the house.

Whenever she lost her keys, they reappeared on the table by the door. Her counters were freshly wiped down every day when she came home, even if she did it before she left. Any dishes that she left in the sink in the morning or at night were mysteriously done when she woke up or came home from work. Food that was about to expire was moved to the front of the fridge.

She discovered that her ghost really liked romantic comedies. Whenever one was on television, the lights flickered at the more emotional parts. Occasionally she found one of her DVDs left in the player, and her Netflix started suggesting more and more sappy things to her. Meg couldn’t remember granting her ghost permission to use her account, but she figured that he needed something to do at night, and set up a separate profile. From then on, weird suggestions stopped appearing in hers. Once, out of curiosity, she checked the profile she’d set up for him and found lots of nature documentaries and sappy, romantic movies.

She went to her brother’s house for Thanksgiving and lied through her teeth about the house being perfectly normal and how well she was settling in. Tom, in return, dumped their mother’s old sewing machine and a bunch of fabric on her. His ex-girlfriend had been a big sewer, but with her gone, he had no use for it. Meg wasn’t a sewer, either, but she lugged the stupid thing home anyway, because it had belonged to her mother. When she woke up the next morning, there were new, Christmas-patterned coasters stacked on her kitchen table, and next to them a handwritten note to please bring home patterns, material that matched the paint in the living room for new curtains, and to please use the new coasters.

She figured that her ghost enjoyed sewing and that he wanted to possibly add some personal touches to the house, so she complied with his request.

They had their own routine. It was perfectly fine, if a little unsettling, and she got used to it.

Until her father called and said that he wanted to stay with her over Christmas break.

Meg was overjoyed and told her father that she would be delighted to have him stay with her. She bounced with excitement for about a minute until she heard the sewing machine whirl to life in the other room and she remembered the little quirk about her house.

She walked into the living room and stared at the sewing machine. The chair was pulled back and the needle was moving faster than she thought was safe, but then, Castiel couldn’t put it through his fingers. She cleared her throat and waited for the machine to stop. Eventually, it did, and the chair turned to face her. Castiel didn’t make an appearance, but the room was cold, so she knew he was listening.

“My dad’s coming to stay over Christmas break,” she told the chair. “So, not to throw a wrench into our routine, but I didn’t tell him anything about the spooky shit, and he’s very superstitious. He’ll probably start burning sage everywhere and shit if he knows. So, like, no freaky stuff while he’s here, okay?”

Castiel didn’t answer, but the room was still cold. Meg stomped her foot. “Okay?”

The Ouija board opened on its own and set itself up on her table. The planchette moved to _yes._

“You can talk to me, you know,” she said. “I did just watch the sewing machine move on its own. What are you making, anyway?”

She heard a loud sigh, and Castiel appeared in the chair. “Christmas is coming up. I thought it would be nice to have some festive things about the house. Do you have any knitting supplies?”

Meg blinked at him. He looked the same as he had the last time, expect this time he didn’t raise his hand to cover the bullet wound in his forehead. She took care not to stare at it, lest he vanish again. “No. I don’t have any knitting stuff. Do I look like I knit?”

“No, but you don’t look like you sew, either, and you have a sewing machine.”

“It was my mom’s. She died like ten years ago. Tom’s ex-girlfriend, Cecily, sewed a lot. But they broke up like two months ago and he doesn’t sew, so I got it.”

“I’m sorry about your mother.”

Meg waved her hand. “It’s okay. It happened a long time ago. Just promise me you won’t pull any weird stuff while my dad is here.”

He nodded. “I think I can hold off doing domestic chores for a week or so.”

She nodded back. “Good. I’m gonna go buy sheets for the guest bedroom.”

He stared at her. “There’s a blanket on that bed. Surely there are sheets?”

“No sheets, no pillowcases, and I’ve only the one blanket,” she told him.

“Meg, you’ve lived her for months.”

“I didn’t think dad was gonna drive four hours to sleep here overnight. He usually stays with Tom. But I need sheets.”

“While you’re out, could you perhaps grab some knitting needles and yarn? Size eight needles. Whatever colors you pick out would be fine.”

Meg sighed. “Sure. I’ll get your yarn. Need something to do while you watch TV?”

He nodded. “Yes, please. Thank you.”

Meg automatically reached for her keys when she reached the front door. They were in the same spot on the table, like they always were when Castiel got ahold of them.

.

Her father had a few more lines on his face, and he had lost a little more hair, but other than that he looked the same as the year before. His strange, yellow eyes sparkled with happiness when he looked at her, and his hug was firm. She excitedly showed him into the kitchen, offered him a beer, and demanded that he fill her in on all the hometown gossip. He teased, complimented her décor, and asked her why the heat was so damn low. Meg suggested her father put on another sweater, but went to turn the heat up, anyway. Her father strolled into the living room and lit a fire instead.

She grabbed a beer for herself and joined her father in the living room.

.

In Castiel’s opinion, Meg’s entire family was _insane._

Her father complimented the electric green paint in the kitchen, and the pink paint in the living room. He liked Meg’s weird, red table in the kitchen and her skull-shaped salt and pepper shakers.

He also complimented Castiel’s curtains and the coasters, but Castiel ignored that.

Azazel Master’s drank just as much beer as his daughter, had terrible eating habits just like her, and also used far too much hot water. After only three days of having the man in the house, Castiel had finally learned where Meg had picked up most of her habits.

Castiel also learned that Azazel was just as messy as Meg had been when she first moved into the house. After he had appeared to her, Meg had become a bit more conscious about moving her glasses onto coasters and keeping the house straightened, for the most part. She still threw her towels and sheets into a haphazard pile in the closet, and she never hung up her towels or folded her laundry properly, but neither did Azazel.

Castiel tried to stay away from them. He tried to obey Meg’s request and act as though he wasn’t there. But he couldn’t help but pick up the towels in the bathroom and move Azazel’s drinks onto coasters when the man wasn’t looking.

On Christmas Eve, Meg’s brother, Tom, came over and he watched as the three of them swapped little presents in Meg’s living room. Christmas music played softly over the speakers, and the fire crackled in the background. Castiel stayed to the side, watching them quietly, trying not to let his emotions get the best of him as he perched next to Meg on the couch, careful not to touch her.

It was homey, and he missed it.

.

Meg woke up on Christmas morning to a carefully-wrapped package on the foot of her bed. Her room was warm, which meant that Castiel was hanging out somewhere else in the house. The package was nothing fancy, wrapped in newspaper and tied with some green ribbon she’d brought home to wrap her own gifts with, and there was no label on it.

She leaned down and grabbed the package. She settled it on her lap and unwound the ribbon, eyebrows wrinkled in confusion. She and her father and Tom had exchanged their little gifts the night before, and she couldn’t imagine who else would’ve bought her something. Peeling back the newspaper, Meg smiled when she saw the soft, knitted sweater nestled in the wrapping.

She only knew one person who knitted.

Meg sat up and pulled the sweater over her nightgown. She’d bought Castiel a bag of on-sale yarn at the craft store, but she hadn’t looked closely at the colors. The sweater itself seemed to be made from all of them, with multicolored stripes down the front and sleeves. The sweater was a little big for her, the collar falling off her shoulder and the sleeves nearly falling over her fingers, but it was warm.

The room suddenly grew cold.

Meg hugged herself. A puff of cool air blew over her face, but her torso was warm in the sweater.

“Thanks,” she said to the empty air. “It looks good, and it’s warm.”

The lights flickered and the cold faded, but Meg knew that she had made Castiel very happy.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Meg was sad to see her father go, but at the same time she was a little relieved. She was ready for life to get back to normal in her house, and while she loved her father, she was also ready for some quiet.

That, and her father was a snooper.

He asked her where her sweater came from, asked her why she had a separate Netflix profile set up, and asked her when exactly she’d learned to sew. He noticed that her sheets and towels were neatly folded, with all the folds facing the same way, and asked her when she’d taken up knitting, and if she was embarrassed by the hobby, because all of the knitting things were crammed in the back of the closet.

For the first time in her life, Meg lied her face off to her father. She’d bought the sweater off the Internet. One of her friends at work had asked to use the sewing machine because hers had broken. She was sharing Netflix with Ruby. Pamela had re-arranged her sheets and towels last time she’d been over and they’d had a girl’s night. She thought that she might try knitting, but hadn’t gotten it, so she’d shoved the things in the back of the closet.

It was Hell to lie to her father, and she knew that he could tell that she was lying.

They were having bacon sandwiches on his last morning there when Azazel cleared his throat. “Meg.”

She took a sip of her coffee. “Dad?”

Azazel leaned forward and folded his hands together. “I think there’s something freaky going on in your house.”

Meg frowned at him. “There’s nothing freaky going on in my house.”

He narrowed his strange, golden eyes at her. “There are dishes in the drying rack that were not in there when we went to bed.”

Meg barely managed not to wince. She had grown so used to Castiel simply taking care of little things that she never even noticed when dishes were in the drying rack in the mornings when they had been in the sink the night before. Castiel, being a stickler for clean things, must have done it, despite his promise not to do anything while her father was here.

“Oh, I did them early this morning,” she lied.

The corner of Azazel’s mouth twitched. “Sweetheart, I know you’re lying. I was up way before you were. So unless you were doing dishes at five AM, something is going on.”

Meg fought to keep her face expressionless. “Nothing is going on. I promise. The house is solid as a rock.”

“I noticed that you’re taking shorter showers.”

“I’m trying to save water. Help the environment.”

Azazel snorted. “Try again.”

“Dad, I’m nearly thirty years old. I think I’m a little old to lie to you.”

“Children are never too old to lie to their fathers,” he said smoothly. “What about the cold spots? I thought you told me that the heat and air in this house was perfect.”

“It is. I’m just keeping it low to save money.”

“That’s funny, because there are only spots in the house that feel cold, and it’s never the same spot, so it can’t be drafts. Meg, has anyone ever died here?”

Meg swallowed hard. “Not that I know of.”

“Are you sure? Perhaps you should go through the historical records.” Azazel took a sip of his coffee and stared at her, unblinking. “Or perhaps you should stay with your brother for a while. Or Ruby.”

“Dad, are you implying that my house is _haunted?”_ Meg huffed.

“That’s exactly what I’m implying.”

“So, what, you want to sage the place because I’m taking shorter showers, attempting to find new hobbies, and trying not to pay so much for heat? Maybe call in one of your weird friends and have them perform a séance?”

“It couldn’t hurt.”

“I don’t want my whole house to smell like that crap. Dad, there is nothing going on. I promise.”

Azazel sighed. “Whatever you say, kiddo. Just keep an eye out, okay?”

“Dad, I already had Pamela check it out. She said nothing was wrong,” Meg lied. “In fact, she said that the house had great energy!”

He pursed his lips that he knew that she was lying, but finished his breakfast without pressing the issue. Meg did the dishes while her father finished packing, shivering when a suddenly cold took over the room.

“You need to not do that,” she muttered. “Or did you not hear that conversation?”

The glass in the drying rack moved from side to side.

“I’ll fill you in after he leaves,” she told it. “Just, go hide somewhere until he does. My room, maybe? Or the attic?”

The cold disappeared. A few more minutes passed, and Meg smelt the distinctive scent of sage.

Groaning, she angrily threw her sponge into the sink.

.

“The sweater really is warm. Where’d you learn to knit?” she asked Castiel as she went around and opened all the windows. He hadn’t appeared to her yet, but she could hear knitting needles lightly clacking together in the background.

“I learned when I was very young. My grandmother taught my sister, and I sat in on the lessons. The Internet has been a great help when it comes to patterns,” Castiel said. “Why does your house smell like sage?”

“Dad burned some before he left,” she grumbled. Meg grabbed the sweater from where she’d flung it on the couch and yanked it over her head to keep the cold out. It was too deep into the winter to have the windows open, but she couldn’t stand the smell of sage.

“Why would he do that?”

“Because he figured out that you’re haunting the house,” she grumbled, sinking onto the couch next to where his knitting needles were moving by themselves. She watched him knit and purl for a few moments. “Will you actually do whatever it is you do to make me see you? I can’t keep talking to your knitting needles.”

She blinked and Castiel was there. Being a ghost, he couldn’t actually touch the needles. Instead, they hovered in the air in front of him, the metallic green needles merrily clacking away. His arms were crossed across his chest as he watched them.

“I’m sorry,” he said as he watched the needles. “I didn’t think he’d notice if I simply moved the dishes to where they were supposed to be. Or notice the cold spots.”

She crossed her arms and sank back into the cushions. “Honestly, I don’t even notice the cold spots anymore, either. I don’t know how he picked up on it.”

“Your father is an observant man. You’d think he’d have better taste.”

“Taste in what? Herbs?”

Castiel turned to look at her. The knitting needles stopped moving and quivered in the air. “He complimented the colors of all your rooms.”

“I thought you liked what I did to the house. You made matching curtains.”

“I made matching curtains because I like that things match. The colors, however, are horrendous.”

Meg snorted. “You just don’t have any taste.”

“When I was alive, the whole house was a neutral tone,” he informed her. “How are you ever going to re-sell with these colors? Buyers like neutral. That’s what the HGTV programs all say.”

“Well, I’m not selling the house, so I don’t know why that’s a problem.”

“It is just very bright. It isn’t my style, but it is yours, and this is your house now, so I reserve no right to complain.”

“Damn straight. But you still should’ve said something. Hell, you should’ve said something when I _started_ decorating.”

“I didn’t want to scare you.”

“Well, you did that, anyway.”

“That was an accident. I apologized for that.”

“I know, I know, and we’re getting off subject. What are we gonna do?”

“We do nothing, we say nothing, and we continue on with our lives and unlives,” he said, turning back to his knitting. “I’m glad you liked the sweater. I wasn’t sure I was going to get the sizing right. I know it doesn’t exactly fit, but I saw that you don’t own many warm pajamas, and wearing your robe to bed seemed wrong, somehow.”

“We can’t just do nothing. Dad’ll probably start passive-aggressively sending me links to websites about how to ghost proof your home and weird advice and probably crosses.”

“So, ignore them. Or thank him for them and tell him that your home is now ghost-free. Say Pamela checked it out for you. She has the sight, yes?”

“She claims.”

“She knew I was here. She even knew the spot where I died.”

Meg shot forward so she was sitting up straight. “Wait, you mean that you actually died in the hallway?”

“There used to be a mirror there. They…took it out. When I died.”

She sank back into the couch. “Oh.”

He nodded. “Yes. I never saw the man who murdered me, and by the time I the papers started being delivered to my house again, the news had gotten stale and there wasn’t anything printed about it. I never found out if they convicted the man or not.”

“Did you check the Internet?”

“A few times. My name never popped up in any of the searches. It does not concern me any longer. I am content here.”

Meg watched him knit for a few minutes before she turned to look at him. “Are you really? You never tried to move on, or anything like that?”

“I wouldn’t even know where to begin. All I know is that I woke up here and I can’t leave the house. If I try to go through the front door, I wind up in the kitchen. If I try to leave through the back door, I wind up in the front hallway. If I try to go through the walls, I wind up back in the house,” he explained. “There is no use worrying about it. I’m sure that God has set me on this path for a reason.”

“Maybe you’re here because you need closure. Like, if you knew who killed you, then you could move on.”

“It’s a good theory,” Castiel admitted. “But if the police couldn’t solve it, I doubt you could.”

“Maybe it’s like Beetlejuice,” she suggested.

“I don’t follow.”

“You know, the movie?”

“I’ve never seen it.”

“It might be on Netflix. If not, I’ll borrow Tom’s DVD. But it’s about this couple that dies, and they have to haunt their house for like a hundred years or something before they move on. It could be like that.”

“Another good theory. But there is nothing sound. I’m sure that I will find out why I am still here, and what I have to do to move on, when God decides that it is time. I have become accustomed to my existence.”

“Well, maybe I could find out. What’s your full name?”

The knitting needles dropped to the floor and Castiel vanished, but the room stayed cold. Meg rolled her eyes.

“If you don’t tell me, I could easily find out,” she warned. “All it would take would be a few phone calls. Besides, it can’t be any weirder than your first name.”

“My first name is not strange.”

“You’re named after an angel. That is considered strange in some circles. Just tell me. And pick your knitting up before it falls off the needles. You’re almost done with…whatever this thing is.”

The needles returned to the air, but Castiel did not reappear. “Milton. My last name is Milton. My sister, Anna, possibly still lives in the area. I was going to her wedding when I was shot. My brother, Gabriel, had plans to move to India with his girlfriend the last I knew of him. I have a few other brothers, and they were scattered, before the wedding. I don’t think any of them will have moved back. Anna married a friend of mine, Dean Winchester. I do not know if she changed her name or not.”

Meg swallowed. It was a lot of information to remember, but as long as she had his last name, she could find something.

“What are you making, anyway?” she asked, pointing to the multicolored thing dangling from the knitting needles.

He reappeared, a smile on his face. “Scarf.”

“Scarf?”

“To match the sweater.”

“Oh. Well, I’ll leave you to it. I’ve gotta go wash the sheets from the guest room.”

He nodded and began knitting again. Meg pushed herself up from the couch and headed up the stairs, intending to do some searching while the sheets were in the washer.

When she woke up the next morning, she was still curled up in her computer chair, but someone had thrown a blanket over her and tucked it in. When she went into the guest room, the sheets were dry and neatly folded on top of the bed.

Smiling, Meg took her laptop downstairs. The coffeemaker had been turned on, and there was a fresh pot waiting for her. She poured herself a cup and set to work.

.

His murder was unsolved.

Meg had found information on his sister, on his sister’s husband, Dean, on Dean’s brother Sam, and on every member of his family. She’d printed it out and left it on the kitchen table before she left for work so he could peruse through the papers and catch up on his family’s lives.

“You look like you were up all night,” Pamela interrupted, sticking her head through the door of Meg’s office. “Fun times?”

“Not really. Remember when you asked if anyone died in my house?”

“You finally did your research?”

Meg nodded. Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a newspaper clipping she’d printed off the Internet about Castiel’s murder and held it out. Pamela strode in, took it, and whistled. “Shame. He’s cute.”

“Brutal, unsolved murder. He was almost twenty-eight. My age.”

“You’re not twenty-eight for another week or so,” Pamela pointed out. “You still up for that bar crawl?”

“Absoloutely. But that’s not the point. The point is, you were right. My house is haunted.”

“Do you need me to get rid of him?” Pamela asked seriously. “I know a woman.”

“My father already sent me a couple of numbers for people. But that’s not what I want to do,” Meg told her. “I think he has unfinished business. His murder was brutal and unsolved and the cops had no idea. As far as they could tell, it was random. There wasn’t any motive, and nothing was taken from his house. I think that when he knows who murdered him he’ll move on.”

“He hasn’t done anything? No tricks, no throwing things at you?” Pamela pressed.

Meg shrugged. “He did pour out all my beer once. But no tricks, no random bruises or scratches. He’s actually pretty helpful. I haven’t lost my keys since I figured it out and talked to him.”

Pamela’s eyes widened, and Meg swore that she saw the other woman’s dark hair stand on end. “You _talked_ to it? Meg, did you use a spirit board? You know those things are dangerous if you don’t know what you’re doing, right? How many times have I told you--”

Meg held her hand up. “I talked to him face to face.” She filled Pamela in on the coaster incident, but left out almost everything else. “Anyway, he’s been pretty helpful. He re-arranged my towels and color-coded them.”

Pamela frowned. “So, what do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know. I just needed to talk to someone about it, I guess. Also, my birthday’s a Monday, so we should probably have the bar crawl over the weekend instead.”

“Okay, I’ll pick you up on Friday at like…six o’clock? Give you a little time to shower, get changed, put your party face on and get ready for a night of drinking and dancing.” Pamela gave her a toothy smile and shimmied a little. “Who are you gonna go home with? Who knows.”

Meg rolled her eyes but smiled. “Alright. I’ll be ready. I’m taking shorter showers now, anyway?”

Pamela’s eyes narrowed. “Any reason?”

“Castiel is overly concerned about the environment and thinks that my showers are too long. If I go over fifteen minutes he cuts off the hot water.”

“That counts as trickery,” Pamela pointed out.

“He did also say that rinsing your hair with cold water is good for it.”

“I did notice that your hair has been looking extra awesome lately. So, good trickery.”

“Yeah. I just don’t know how to find any more information on this stuff. If the police couldn’t solve it, how can I even find anything out?”

Pamela straightened up. “The cops didn’t have Pamela Barnes, psychic extraordinaire.”

“Pamela, I have extreme faith in your abilities. Castiel told me that you pinpointed the exactly spot where he was shot, but I don’t know how you could use your extra sense to figure that out.”

“An extra pair of hands at the keyboard can’t hurt. I’ll bring my laptop over tonight, we’ll order pizza, and we’ll get cracking. I’m sure we can find some patterns that the police wouldn’t think to pick up.”

“Like what?”

Pamela suddenly grew serious. “Uncle Alistair.”

Meg shivered. Her uncle Alistair had been her favorite uncle growing up, and was the reason she had decided to go into the medical field in the first place. He was a surgeon, and Meg had spent her childhood reading his medical books, college textbooks, and pretending to operate on her dolls. When she’d gotten a little older, he’d shown her pictures of actual surgeries, and had even helped her dissect pig eyeballs and frogs that he’d gotten for her.

She’d been a senior in High School when Alistair had been arrested for a string of murders that were eventually traced back to some underground religious group he’d been a part of. Using his medical knowledge, her uncle had tortured his victims and laid their organs out around their body in what was apparently some sort of incantation. None of his victims had anything in common, aside from their ages, which is why it had taken the police so long to catch up to him.

They had never learned anything about his strange, religious sect, either. He’d killed himself in his cell before the trial. Meg had moved to get away from the stigma of being related to him, and she’d kept her mouth shut all through college about it. The only reason Pamela knew was because Meg had confessed to her over a drunken game of Operation as they celebrated the end of the school year during Meg’s first year as a nurse.

Meg took a deep breath. “That’s over. There was never any indication that Alistair was working with anybody. He was just crazy. He thought he was talking to the devil, or something. Most of that Satanic stuff you see is just bored teenagers doing shit to scare their parents. Trust me. Besides, it doesn’t even work like that.”

“I didn’t say anything about Satanism. I just said you never know what’s out there. Everyone I know who dabbles in things outside of this world are normal, good people. But you hear things about the people that aren’t so good.” Pamela pursed her lips. “I’m not saying that Castiel’s murder could be connected to the shit your uncle did, but I am saying that something fishy could be going on. It’s worth trying to check out, at least.”

Meg swallowed hard. “I don’t like to think about it. So, research this week, and bar crawl on Friday?”

Pamela smiled softly. “Sounds like a plan. I gotta get back to my classroom before lunch is over.”

Meg waved her friend out and settled back down in her chair.

.

“Cas, I’m having a friend over tonight,” she shouted when she walked into the house after school. “Be nice to her this time.”

“That dark-haired woman who said that I would hurt you?” Castiel guessed, appearing in front of her. Meg jumped, feeling foolish afterward. Castiel gave her a small smile, and she saw a twinkle in his eye.

“Yeah, Pamela. Be nice to her.”

“I shall try. Do I have to make myself scarce?”

“You might want to.” Meg moved around him and continued down the hallway toward the kitchen. Castiel had told her once that she could easily pass through him if she wished, but Meg had never tried it. “We’re actually going to try to look some more things up on your murder.”

A sudden blast of cold went through her, as if she’d submerged her hand in icy water. She turned around on instinct and saw that Castiel’s hand was _inside_ of hers, his fingers passing clean through her palm like he’d tried to grab her hand.

“You _what?”_ he screeched. “You _told her_ about us?”

Meg jumped backward and cradled her hand to her chest. “Why are you yelling? Pamela was the first person to know that you were here, remember? She’s a bit of a psychic. She can tell when places are haunted and shit.”

“That does not mean you had to share the details of my _murder.”_

Meg winced. “I didn’t share any details, but she offered to help me do some research. She’s good at this stuff. We could just do it at her apartment.”

A gust of cold air blew over her face. “You can do what you wish. This is your house.”

“It’s your house, too.”

He slumped his shoulders. “Are we fighting over something so stupid?”

Meg blinked. “I think so. You don’t have to let Pamela see you, you know. You can do whatever it is you normally do when I’m not home. We’ll probably stay in the living room. The TV upstairs has a Netflix hookup. What do you usually do when I’m not home?”

“Wait for you to get back.”

She took a step back from him. “What?”

“Well, I do housework and knit and sometimes go on the computer, but mostly I wait for you to get home. My afterlife is not very exciting.”

The doorbell rang before she could respond. She blinked and Castiel had vanished. The bell rang again.

Meg opened the door and saw Pamela standing there with a pizza in one hand and her laptop and cords tucked under her other arm. “You ready to have a murder party?”

The door swung shut in Pamela’s face. Meg stomped her foot and heard her friend laughing on the other side of the door.

“Castiel, that is not funny! She was kidding!” Meg screeched.

“It was pretty funny, and I was being insensitive. Sorry, dude,” Pamela said from the other side of the door. It swung open again, and suddenly the hallway felt a lot warmer.

Meg rolled her eyes. “Come in, Pamela. Let’s hit the Internet.”

They ate their pizza and searched. Pamela, who clearly knew what she was doing, lugged in more supplies from her car, posterboard and markers and string. Meg, who had gone through a detective phase as a child, took great delight in being able to finally pin a bunch of things to a board and connect them with string.

They wound up ordering a second pizza and passing out on her couches when it was done, exhausted from staring at computer screens for hours. Meg stirred at four AM when she felt someone tucking a blanket around her, but fell back into a deep sleep.

When she and Pamela woke in the morning, exhausted and bleary eyed, it was to fresh coffee, a clean kitchen, and their notes neatly stacked and labeled in Castiel’s small, cramped handwriting. Meg, who was used to things being re-arranged while she slept, simply stumbled into a chair and cradled her coffee close to her chest, inhaling the fumes to try to wake herself up. Pamela looked around wide-eyed before she cautiously reached for the coffeepot.

“You get used to it,” Meg told her. “Cas likes to do stuff while I sleep.”

“I don’t think I could ever get used to a ghost in my house moving things while I sleep,” Pamela grumbled. She took the coffee, anyway.

Meg ignored her and groped for the sugar bowl, blinking when she realized that Castiel had moved it. “You moved my sugar? Jesus Christ, have you been reading health articles on the Internet again?”

Pamela blinked. “Excuse me?”

Meg scanned her counter and saw that her sugar container was next to the coffeemaker. “Oh, if I can’t see Castiel I usually just shout and he can hear me. And he moved the sugar over by the coffeemaker.”

“So, you talk to the ghost regularly?” Pamela asked. “How often does he appear to you, Meg?”

“Every day? Well, not always. But I usually see stuff moving even if I don’t see him.” Meg lowered her voice. “He’s embarrassed by the bullet hole.”

“The bullet hole?”

Meg tapped her forehead. Pamela nodded.

“Ah. The death wound. That happens for a while afterward. But he does know that he can fix it, right?”

“I can fix it?” Castiel interrupted, appearing next to Meg’s chair. Pamela jumped up, knocking her chair over. Meg simply gestured toward the sugar container until Castiel rolled his eyes, a habit no doubt picked up from her, and sailed the sugar container over to the table.

“Oh, my god. He’s in physical form,” Pamela breathed. “Meg, your ghost is standing in your kitchen.”

“He does that.”

“You said that I could fix this,” Castiel reminded Pamela, gesturing toward the bullet wound in his forehead. Meg, who had long grown used to both the entrance and exit wounds, stirred some sugar in her coffee and took a sip.

Pamela took a deep breath and fixed her chair. “You just have to put your hand over the hole and concentrate. It comes with time.”

Meg ignored Castiel as he repeatedly tried to close the wound. “You can borrow something from my closet, if you want. We’ve gotta get dressed for work.”

But Pamela couldn’t stop staring at Castiel as he probed his own forehead and tried to get the wound to close. “Meg, there’s a ghost standing in your kitchen.”

“We established that. Chinese tonight?”

“Meg, there is a ghost _standing in your kitchen,”_ Pamela repeated. “A physical manifestation. Do you have any idea how far this haunting has gone if he’s regularly manifesting?”

“I am standing right here,” Castiel interrupted. “Also, has the hole closed?”

Meg frowned at him. “It looks a little smaller from the back, and less jagged up front. But still there. Why not try the mirror in the bathroom?”

“I can’t see my own reflection,” Castiel admitted.

“Really?”

He nodded. “Really. Also, you have leftover pizza. You two never finished the second one last night.”

“Well, we can eat that _and_ Chinese food.”

“Perhaps a salad? Or something with vegetables in it? Or something that hasn’t been fried?” Castiel suggested. Meg snorted and turned back to her coffee, smiling when she saw Pamela looking between the two of them, a small frown on her face.

“What’s up, Pamela?”

“We’ve still got half an hour before we have to be at school. I’m going to run home really quick and change. I’ll bring an overnight bag for tonight. Thanks for the coffee, Meg.” She stood up and nodded at Castiel. “Um, and you.”

Then she bolted, leaving Meg blinking at the spot she had just vacated. “Huh.”

Castiel took the empty chair. “Productive night?”

Meg shrugged. “So-so. There are a lot of murders to sift through for such a small town. But Pamela thought that we should widen our search to the surrounding ones, too. There’s a lot of stuff to go through.”

“I could assist,” Castiel offered. “Tell me what patterns you’re looking for and I could go through some papers while you two are at work.”

Meg quirked an eyebrow at him. “I thought you were against this whole thing.”

“Well, clearly you can’t be talked out of it, and will go forward whether you have my support or not. I thought it best to offer, in any case.”

“Thanks, but I’m not even sure what we’re trying to narrow down, yet.” Meg took another sip of her coffee and sighed. “Right now we’re trying to sift through to find a pattern. Guys your age, or similar situations, or anything funky. We’re gonna try to narrow down some more stuff tonight.”

“I looked over some of it while you were sleeping. I highly doubt that there was cult involvement in my murder, Meg.”

Meg drained her mug. “Right. And everyone highly doubted that my uncle Alistair was involved in anything funky, and he still managed to kill eleven people over the course of eleven years, and there were no similarities between victims other than that fact that they were all nineteen years old and all the murders happened in June. Genders, social status, money, it was all different. And no one thought it was due to anything crazy religious having to do with skulls and candles and ritual dismemberment.”

His brow furrowed. “Your uncle was a murderer?”

“Yeah. The papers called him the Butcher. Anyway, Pamela and I just thought that it was a possibility. You never know, you know? That might not lead anywhere. Pamela’s getting more details on your case later today.”

“How?”

“She knows a guy.” Meg sighed and stood. “I gotta get ready for work. Have a good day, Cas.”

“You, too!” he said to her as she headed upstairs to shower. She didn’t see him again before she left, but her keys had been moved from the kitchen table to the front table, anyway. She smiled as she left for work.

.

There were no connections that Meg could find. She and Pamela worked for the next week, the other woman carpooling home with Meg in the afternoons and spending the night on the couch so many times that Meg made up the guest room for her. Castiel wisely steered clear, but Meg noticed Pamela jumping at the slightest noise.

“Relax,” Meg advised her as they combed through articles. “He’s not going to do anything.”

“Meg, I don’t think you have any idea how powerful a physical manifestation can be,” Pamela said. “The things that he could do to you, or your house, could be devastating.”

“We went over this. He hasn’t tried to touch me. Well, once, when he was mad, but his hand went right through mine.”

“What if you make him mad again and he hurts you by accident? I really think you should come stay with me until we figure this out. If finding out who murdered him isn’t his unfinished business, you should sell the house.”

“I’m _not_ selling my house. I just got it! Besides, Castiel’s good. The worst thing he does is turn the hot water off if I shower too long. Sometimes he pulls the curtains open in my bedroom on weekends if he thinks I’ve overslept. But other than that nothing happens,” Meg said. “Really, Pamela. You’re worrying over nothing.”

Pamela rolled her eyes. “Fine. Don’t come crying to me when you wake up with random scratches on your back.”

“I won’t,” Meg said icily. “Anyway, all of the connections we’ve tried have been a bust. There are no similarities to Castiel’s murder in any of these cases.”

“Maybe we’re not going back far enough,” Pamela suggested.

“We’ve gone through all of the murders in town in the last fifty years. So far, all we’ve found was one other person who was murdered two days before their twenty-eighth birthday, and a handful of other cases where they were murdered on their twenty-eighth birthday or just after it. That’s all we’ve got.” Meg sighed and rubbed her temples. “That doesn’t sound like a connection to me. How much further back can we go?”

“We could go back a hundred years.”

“It was a stupid idea,” Meg muttered.

“Not entirely.” Pamela reached into her bag and slid a folder across Meg’s table. “Bobby brought it by today while I was on my lunchbreak. He got the details. The wounds must not show up on him because they happened postmortem, but your roommate was stabbed. He probably doesn’t even know.”

“Stabbed?” Meg flipped the folder open and read through the information. Apparently, when the cops had found Castiel, he had not only been shot in the head, but had been naked from the waist up. The only other wounds on the body were three deep stab wounds. Two of them were on his chest, just above his nipples, and the third wound was in his navel. “So?”

Pamela smiled and rolled her eyes. “So? Meg, do you need more coffee?” Rifling through the papers they’d printed out, Pamela extracted an article and slid it toward Meg. “Sarah Blake. Killed two days after her twenty-eighth birthday. Her husband ran to the store and took their infant son. Neighbors reported a gunshot, and she was found clothed, but with three distinct stab wounds, two on her chest and one on her navel.”

Frantic, Meg flipped through the papers and grabbed another one. “April Kelly. Killed two days before her twenty eighth birthday, found with three stab wounds on her back, forming a triangle. She was killed by strangulation.”

“Ben Collins, killed on his twenty eighth birthday, death by strangulation with some sort of ligature, found with three stab wounds on his arm. Ava Wilson, death by decapitation, head found staring at her own body, three distinct stab wounds in forehead and under nose,” Pamela read, pulling more pages out of the file. Meg rose and pinned them to the poster board.

“That’s all of them in the last fifty years, including Castiel. Almost every ten years, like clockwork, someone shows up dead with three stab wounds,” Meg whispered, staring at the board. “How did they not pick up on this?”

“Aside from the ages and the stab wounds, everything is different,” Pamela said. “The placement, the living status. Half of these people lived with their families and their families never even heard them die. It looks random.”

“You’d think they’d pick up on the timing and the stab wound pattern.”

“Not all of the stab wounds were postmortem. In fact, most of them weren’t. The crimes happened at different times of day,” Pamela observed. “If you didn’t know what you knew about uncle Alistair, would you think any of these people were connected in any way?”

“No,” Meg admitted.

“But it’s something, isn’t it?” Pamela pressed. “We found _something.”_

“What if it doesn’t lead anywhere? What if the police found it already and it led nowhere?”

Pamela tilted her head at the board, her eyes narrowed. “Meg, do you have a map?”

Meg turned to look at Pamela and quirked an eyebrow. “What? Of the town? No.”

“Not of the town. Of the state, maybe?”

“I don’t think so. Maybe somewhere. But I don’t know where it is.” As if to answer her, a map of the state floated into the room and settled down on the table. Pamlea shivered, but Meg simply shook her head. “Seriously, Cas? Where did you even find this thing? I didn’t even think I unpacked it.”

Pamela snatched the map up and unrolled it. Using her and Meg’s computers to keep it flat, she groped around for a marker until that, too, floated straight into her hand. For once she ignored the strangeness of objects simply appearing when they were needed and circled their town on the map. Using her fingers, she traced it in one direction, then the other, forming a V shape. Meg watched Pamela circle two more towns and connect the dots.

It formed an upside down triangle.

“Meg, I think we need to look up all the murders in those towns in the last fifty years, too. The triangle might mean something.”

Meg’s shoulders slumped. “I’ll go put on another pot of coffee.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

“I don’t know about the bar crawl, Pamela. I feel like we’re really close to cracking something,” Meg told her friend over their lunchbreak on Friday. “I feel kind of guilty, going out and drinking when I’m close to solving my friend’s murder.”

“Since when has Meg Masters ever turned down a night of drinking and hooking up with a rando?” Pamela asked. “Meg, Castiel is dead, and he isn’t getting any deader. I’m sure he can wait a few days.”

“The anniversary of his murder is coming up. It’s been ten years this year, Pamela. And it follows the pattern. And I’m turning twenty eight. It may not be safe to be out partying.”

“Being out partying is probably safest. All those people were murdered at home. Besides, we’ll take Tom with us to play DD. And we’ll stick by your side all night.”

A knock at the door interrupted them. Meg looked up and saw Crowley peeking his head in. “Am I interrupting anything, ladies?”

Meg narrowed her eyes at him. “What do you want?”

He held his hand up, revealing a long cut on the back of his hand. “Just a band-aid.”

Pamela stood and began rooting around in Meg’s drawers, holding one out to Crowley when she found it. She was careful not to touch him. “There. You have your band aid.”

“So polite. Sounds like you girls are having a party this weekend? Or possibly murdering someone. Although, word around the water cooler is that you two have been investigating some very old cold cases,” Crowley rambled as he opened the band aid. “No antiseptic wipes?”

Meg tossed one at him. “Maybe you should keep some band aids in your desk. And mind your own business.”

“Maybe you should be more polite.”

Meg glared at him. “I hope you get an infection.”

“I hope you get alcohol poisoning.”

“Woah, alright.” Pamela pushed between them and held her hands up. “I think we should all get back to our classrooms. Fergus, git. Meg, I will pick you up at six o’clock. No buts. Our research will still be there on Monday night.”

“Monday night?”

“Well, you didn’t think I was going to do research with a hangover, did you? And Sunday we’re still going to need to recoup.”

“Fine.” Meg glared at Crowley again. “What are you still doing here? You got your band aid.”

“I just wanted to wish you a pleasant birthday,” Crowley told her. He smiled a slimy smile at her, and Meg had to resist the urge to shiver in front of him.

“Thanks. Now git.”

For once, he did as he was told. Pamela held her middle finger up at his back, but covered it quickly when a student walked by. “I hate him.”

“That makes two of us. How did people find out what we were doing?”

“We haven’t exactly been quiet about it. Someone probably overheard us discussing it and word spread. Does it bother you?”

“It bothers me that _he_ knows. He skeeves me out.”

“Why? He’s not gonna do anything. Who cares if he knows?”

“It just bothers me. Now, you git. The bell’s gonna ring any minute and the teacher being late isn’t good for class.”

“Okay, okay, I’m going,” Pamela began walking backward toward the door. “But remember, six o’clock sharp. Wear something slutty!”

Meg rolled her eyes. “Promise. Now _go.”_

Pamela stuck her tongue out at Meg, but went anyway. Meg sighed, sat back down, and wondered if Castiel knew how to make hangover food. If Pamela got her way, she was going to need it.

.

Meg wrapped a towel around her hair and strode from the bathroom to her room. “Cas, you around? Hey, Cas?”

The upstairs hallway felt cold, but the chill didn’t follow her into her bedroom, and the door swung shut when she started to pull off her other towel. Rolling her eyes, Meg opened her closet. “Dude, just get in here. I don’t care if you see me naked. You’re dead, for Christ’s sake. What’s it gonna do?”

Castiel’s voice came from the other side of the door. “It is still inappropriate.”

Meg pulled her party dress out of her closet, threw it onto the bed, and slipped into her good underwear. “I’m decentish!” she called.

“Decent _ish?”_

“I’ve got underwear on!”

“That is not decent! Put a robe on!”

Meg rolled her eyes again, but complied, slipping into a short, light-blue robe that Ruby had given her one year for Christmas. It barely covered her thighs, but she supposed that it was decent enough. “Okay, decent! Just come in here!”

Castiel glided through the door. “That is not decent!”

“I’m covered, you prude.”

“How was work?” he asked. “Did you get thrown up on? Is that why you showered right after?”

“I’m sure you heard about Pamela and I going out drinking tonight.”

“I wasn’t sure that you two were still planning on going. What is the occasion?”

Meg blinked. “You know.”

“I don’t. Contrary to what you believe, Meg, I am not always sitting in the same room as you. I don’t know everything that goes on. I figured I would give you and your friend some privacy.”

“It’s my birthday Monday,” she told him. “That’s why Pamela and I are going out and partying. It’s a thing that people do.”

“I am well aware that people party on their birthdays. Have fun.”

“I will. I just wanted to make sure you knew that I’m going to be gone tonight. Maybe until tomorrow morning. Depending.”

“Depending on what?”

“On if I’m too drunk to stumble home,” Meg lied. For some reason, telling Castiel that she planned on possibly hooking up with a random guy felt tacky, despite the fact that he was dead. He had been the only man in her life for months, due to the craziness of the move and adjusting to the fact that her house was haunted. “Or if Ruby is super drunk and I can’t get away from her. Whenever she has a few too many she gets really cuddly and latches on and does not let go. And she likes to be the big spoon.”

“Oh.”

Meg nodded and grabbed her hairdryer. “So, just so you know.”

“Well, thank you for telling me. The house will stay clean for a whole day. Two, possibly, if you are still too hungover to move much when you finally get here. I’ll make you a bacon sandwich. Good hangover food.”

“God, I love you,” she said absentmindedly as she plugged in her hairdryer. She missed his reply due to the noise, but continued talking. “Pamela and I are planning on picking up our research on Monday. We went back a little further and looked into the surrounding towns, and found eleven other murders with the triangle stab wounds. Cult involvement, possibly. We’re gonna have to go to the police at some point, but this is surprisingly kinda fun. Exhausting, but fun.”

She finished drying her hair and shrugged off her robe, looking around when she heard a yelp. Castiel was nowhere in sight. “Cas? Did you turn invisible?”

_“Please put some clothing on!”_

“Please stop being invisible!”

“Clothing!”

“Fine,” Meg huffed. She stepped into her dark purple party dress and yanked it up. It covered even less skin than the robe did. Sleeveless, it fell to the top of her thighs and hugged every curve of her body. Combined with her good bra, it pushed her breasts up and together. It was too cold for it, but she planned on conning Tom into driving the three of them to the good club an hour away and dancing until it hurt to walk for two days.

“Don’t you need a coat?” Castiel asked as she struggled to zip herself up. “Here, let me.”

Meg pulled her hair away from her neck and felt a gust of cool air travel up her spine as Castiel zipped the dress up. The feeling sent gooseflesh springing up on her skin and sent a zing of heat down her belly. She could almost feel his breath on the back of her neck.

She turned around. Castiel hadn’t moved, but stood close to her, their chests nearly brushing. “So, what do you think? Would you drool over me if you were still capable of drooling?”

“Absolutely. Please wear a coat.”

“I will put a coat on for the car ride,” she promised. “I should go put on my makeup.”

“Sure,” he said, but didn’t move. Meg glanced up at his forehead and let out a small gasp. The bullet wound on his forehead was gone.

“Oh, wow. When did you fix it?” she asked, pointing at him.

“This morning. I finally did it.”

“It’s so weird to see you all smooth.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah. I’m not gonna be able to see your brain anymore from the back.”

“I’m rather glad about that.”

“You look good,” she said sincerely.

“Thank you.”

She stood there for a minute more, waiting for him to move. But Castiel stood still, staring at her, his eyes moving over her face. Finally, Meg simply stepped through him, shivering at the sudden cold. She heard Castiel gasp loudly as she passed through his form, and when she glanced over her shoulder she saw him standing rigid in the middle of the room.

.

“See anyone you like?” Pamela asked as they settled in the corner. Meg had managed to convince Pamela out of a bar crawl in favor of a club, as long as she promised to drink as much at one place as she would if they hit more than one. Meg, having finally extracted herself from Ruby and Ruby’s wandering hands, flopped down and reached for her drink.

“No,” she slurred. “All these guys are ugos.”

“Not all of these guys are ugly! Just pick one! When was the last time you got any?”

“A couple of weeks ago,” Meg lied. It had actually been a few weeks before the move, when Pamela had thrown Tom a party as a way to cheer him up after he and Cecily broke up, but there was no harm in lying.

“Meg, I know your lying face! That’s your lying face!” Pamela shouted. “You’ve said no to every guy I’ve pointed out to you tonight. What is up with you?”

“Nothing! I just don’t like anybody!”

“Did you meet another guy and not tell me about it?”

“No!”

Pamela stared at her. “Oh, no.”

“Oh no what? Why are you oh noing?”

“You have a crush on your ghost!” Pamela shouted. “You’re totally crushing on a dead guy! That’s why you’re not snuggled up in the corner smooching a hot guy and letting him feel you up over your dress!”

“You’re drunk!”

“Yes, but that does not negate what I’m saying!” Pamela laughed and reached for her drink. “Oh, that is hilarious!”

“I do not have a crush on a dead guy. I am not twelve.”

“What does being twelve have to do with anything?”

Meg started laughing. “I don’t know.”

“I’m going to get you another drink, and then another, and then you are going to drink until you forget all about bullet hole in the head and find some guy with a pulse to sloppily make out with,” Pamela told her.

Tom trotted over to them, Ruby hanging off of his arm. The dark-haired girl was giggling, and her hand was wandering downward toward his butt. “Meg, control your friend.”

“Ruby, sweetie, get off my brother,” Meg pleaded. Standing on shaky legs, she stumbled over to her friend and tried to pry her off of Tom. “Ruby, Ruby, c’mon, let’s not have a repeat of our graduation party. Or my twenty fifth birthday. Or your twenty fifth, twenty sixth, and twenty seventh birthdays. Or Pamela’s Christmas party. Don’t sleep with my brother again, okay?”

“But he’s so cute,” Ruby complained. “And he’s got a nice butt and a big penis.”

“I did not need to know that again.” Ruby fell against Meg and nuzzled her neck. Meg looked at Tom. “Take her back.”

“No!”

“Just let her grab your butt. She loves your butt.”

“Meg.”

“I’m the birthday girl! You can’t say no to me!”

“It’s not your birthday until Monday, and Pamela conned me into being your designated driver tonight, so that’s punishment enough. She’s your friend, you deal with her groping and spooning,” Tom said. “If I can’t drink, then you deal with snuggles.”

Meg patted Ruby’s back as the other girl giggled. “I need another drink. Where’s Pamela?”

Tom looked over his shoulder. “Looks like she’s found two guys that need two good women to hook up with.”

Meg groaned. “No. Ruby, makeout with me.”

Ruby perked up. “Okay!”

Rolling his eyes, Tom reached over and pulled Ruby back to his side. “Meg, you are far too old to use the lesbian distraction. Finish your drink and we’ll go dance. Hey, Ruby, why don’t you go deal with Pamela?”

Ruby pouted, but managed to wobble her way over to where Pamela was standing. Meg tossed her drink back and smiled at her brother.

“Let’s go. I don’t want to be able to feel my legs tomorrow!”

.

Everything was swimming. The lights, the road, the radio. Meg couldn’t remember why she was supposed to say over at Pamela’s house that night, and Pamela, asleep in the backseat with Ruby cuddled up to her, couldn’t remind her.

“You sure you want to go home?” Tom asked. “You are not going to have a good morning.”

“I get bacon sandwiches in the morning,” Meg told him. “Greasy, fatty bacon sandwiches and no one is going to tell me that they’re bad for me!”

“Well, you’ll be alone, so I doubt that. Have a good birthday?”

Meg reached down and pulled her heels off. She couldn’t feel her feet. “Yes. I want to go home now, though.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t stumble home with some guy.”

“I don’t need to. I have a guy at home.”

“Something pink that vibrates does not count as a guy, and I don’t need to know that you’re going home to drunkenly masturbate.”

“I’m not.”

“You are far too drunk to have an intelligent conversation.”

“You’re too sober to have an intelligence conversation.”

“Intelligent conversation,” Tom corrected.

“That’s what I said. An intelligence conversation.” Meg crossed her arms. “Are we home yet?” Home meant coffee and bacon sandwiches in the morning, meant a cozy fire and a day curled up in her favorite sweater, watching knitting needles hover in the air and the lights flickering during a horror movie.

Home meant Castiel.

A warm feeling spread through her chest, and Meg reached over and poked her brother in the arm. “I like ghosts.”

Tom laughed. “Meg, I am so sorry dad is not here to see this.” He eased the car to a stop in her driveway. “Do you need help getting to the front door?”

“No, no, I’m good,” Meg told him, smiling and nodding. She nearly fell when she opened the door of his truck, but managed to regain her balance at the last minute. Holding onto her shoes, Meg waved and headed toward the house, managing to keep her balance until she was leaning against her front door, giggling.

It took two tries to get her key into the door. Part of her was surprised that Castiel didn’t swing it open for her, but then she remembered that Tom was still sitting in the driveway to make sure she got inside before he drove away. She shot him another wave, managed to get her key in the door, and stumbled inside.

“Hey, Cas, you will not believe what happened tonight!” she called, stripping off her coat. “Ruby spent two hours trying to feel my brother up, like she wanted a repeat of the last party. I swear, every time those two get drunk together they wind up in bed, and then I have to hear about Ruby complain about it for weeks. One of these days he is gonna knock her up and I’m gonna get a little niece or nephew they’ll expect me to babysit and I’ll get to say _I told you so_ for _forever._ ” Meg swung her closet door open and tossed her shoes and coat in, not caring where they landed. “Cas? I’m gonna need you to help me out of this dress. I can’t remember how to work zippers.”

“Your boyfriend’s not here, darling,” a slimy voice said. Meg started to shriek, but it was cut off when a strong hand snaked its way around her head to clamp down over her mouth. She drunkenly thrashed, but the intruder held her tightly. She froze when she felt something sharp press against her back.

She shook the hand off and tried to bite it, yelping when the intruder shoved her against the closed closet door. She recognized the slimy voice. Shocked into semi-sobriety, she whirled around and growled. “Crowley.”

Crowley smiled at her. “Meg, you look like you had a nice time.”

“Get out of my house,” she slurred. The air grew cold in the entryway, and Meg shivered. Crowley must have thought it was from fear, because his smile widened and he stepped closer.

“I don’t like the things you’re looking into,” he told her. “And just my luck, you happen to be the right age. We don’t like to do the same place twice, but I suppose we can make an exception. Just this once. Hold still, Meg. It won’t hurt much. You’re so drunk that I don’t think you’ll even feel it.”

“You’re the murderer,” Meg blurted. “You murdered Castiel, and Sarah Blake, and all those other people.”

“And now you. The God is hungry, and you are just perfect.”

Meg drew in a deep breath to scream, to alert her neighbors or Castiel or someone of what was going on. Crowley jumped forward, slapped a hand over her mouth, and slipped his knife into her stomach. She yowled against his fingers and tried to bite and scratch at him, her arms waving wildly. But the alcohol in her system made her clumsy, and she toppled to the floor.

The pain in her belly was sharp and her blood was sticky on her palms as she tried to staunch the flow. Coughing, she kicked out wildly and rolled onto her belly, trying to get away. She could feel her dress riding up, and the carpet in the front hall scraped at her skin.

Crowley laughed and roughly forced her to turn over. Meg tried to scream at him, but all that came out of her throat was a gurgle. Crowley dropped down to straddle her and wrapped his gloved fingers around her neck. Meg thrashed under him, trying to dislodge his hands.

“I’m so, so lucky that you decided to go out and get this drunk tonight,” Crowley told her. His voice was calm and even as he pressed his thumbs harder against her windpipe. “I hate using the gun. So loud, so messy. This is much better. I’ll get to see the light leave your eyes, and I’ll feel you die under me. The God will be pleased with my offering, and you’ll be off my trail.”

Meg stopped thrashing and clawed desperately at Crowley’s hands, trying to get oxygen into her system. She could hear her blood pounding in her ears and saw black fingers creeping across her vison as Crowley began praying under his breath in Latin. The words sounded far away, muted, and the room began to swim.

The room grew icily cold.

Crowley’s body flew off of hers and slammed into the door. Meg coughed and curled up on herself, frantically sucking in air as she pressed her hands into the wound on her stomach. When she looked up, Castiel was standing between her and Crowley, his fists clenched. Meg held her throat with one hand, smearing blood on her skin. Wheezing, she smiled at his back. “Good timing, Cas.”

Crowley staggered to his feet, eyes wide. “You. I killed you.”

The room vibrated. Ice formed on the windows. “You,” Castiel whispered. “It was you.”

Crowley stooped and picked his knife up off the floor. “No matter. You’re still dead. You can’t hurt me, and you can’t stop me from killing her.”

“I think I just proved that I can hurt you,” Castiel growled. Crowley simply smirked and took a step forward. The table next to the door flew from its place and slammed into Crowley’s stomach, pinning him against the door. Meg threw herself onto the carpet as several knives from the kitchen flew out and hovered in the air in front of Crowley. “Meg, can you stand? Can you call the police?”

Meg tried to stand and fell forward onto the floor. The room spun. “Cas…I can’t see. Hospital.”

Castiel cursed. Meg let out a small laugh, clutching her stomach when it sent more blood oozing through her fingers. “Shit. I’ve never heard you say that word before.”

Taking advantage of Castiel’s distraction, Crowley managed to push the table away and leap forward. He barreled through Castiel without hesitation and grabbed Meg by the hair. She shrieked and batted at his hands, stopping when Crowley jerked and his eyes went wide. He coughed once, bloody spittle flying from his mouth, and toppled, landing heavily on top of her.

Lights shone through her front window.

Meg cautiously slid backward to get out from under Crowley. There was a knife in the back of his throat, blood steadily pooling around the blade. She gently reached out and gripped the handle, sliding her fingers along it.

Castiel knelt down next to her. “Your brother is here. He will take you to the hospital.”

“We did it,” Meg breathed. “Holy shit, Castiel. You _killed_ him.”

“I saved you. Your fingerprints are on the knife. They’ll say it was self-defense. You have plenty of evidence.” He glanced at the door. Meg heard Tom’s truck stop. “I have to go.”

“Already?” she asked dumbly. Her feet and hands felt numb, her stomach rolled, and she could hardly hear.

Castiel only smiled, vanishing as the door flew open. Meg looked up at her brother as Tom’s eyes darted around. “Meg? Meg? Oh, my god. Are you bleeding? What happened? Meg!”

Meg looked at Crowley, looked back up at her brother, and vomited into her lap. She heard Tom screaming her name, and saw his feet rushing toward her just before she fainted.

.

Meg was still fuzzy on the details when they released her from the hospital with bandages around her middle and enough painkillers to keep her happy. She’d spent days tucked up in bed, talking to the police and reassuring her family and friends that she would be fine. Her father had driven in and spent two days alternating between yelling at her for being stupid and not going to the cops and crying while he held her hand. On the third day, Tom had managed to pry Azazel away from her bedside to make sure her hallway would be clean when she came home.

She hadn’t asked how it went. Half of her expected it to be clean already, but the other half of her knew that Castiel surely would have moved on by now, having finished his unfinished business by killing Crowley and solving the mystery of his murder.

She spent her twenty eighth birthday in the hospital, blissfully hopped up on pain meds and pretending to blow out a candle that Ruby propped up in her pudding. The facility wouldn’t allow open flames, of course, so it was as close as they could get. Pamela told her that they’d have a proper party once she was fully healed and everything with the police was dropped.

Her father asked why Crowley had chosen her, and what had really happened that night. The cops had gone over it with her at dozens of times, and so had Tom and Ruby and Pamela. Meg looked each one of them in the eye, settled her gaze on Pamela’s, and had calmly told them:

“I don’t know. I was so drunk I don’t remember a thing.”

Pamela had stayed silent. It was thanks to her that Tom had even come back to the house in the first place. She’d woken up in the backseat, screamed when she saw Meg wasn’t there, and yelled at Tom until he turned around to pick her up. Without that, she might’ve bled out in the hallway, even with Castiel’s help.

All that was left of the nightmare was to take the final wheelchair ride and return to her empty house. Pamela would be by after school with soup, get well cards, flowers, and stories, but until then, she would have a few hours to herself for the first time since she had moved into her house.

Tom met her at the door and helped her into his truck. “Got everything?”

Meg rolled her eyes. “I didn’t have much to begin with.” Ruby had brought Meg a change of underwear, a pair of sweatpants, and a ratty, paint stained sweatshirt, and Pamela had brought over a pair of her flip flops. Those were the only things coming home with her from the hospital, aside from her meds and a list of doctor’s orders for what she could and couldn’t do while she was healing.

It was far too cold for flip flops, so Meg turned the heater up in the car as high as it could go and pressed her feet nearly against the vent.

“You know, I could take the day off of work and stay with you,” Tom offered. “Just until Pamela gets there.”

“I’m probably going to go right to sleep in my own bed,” Meg told him. “Really, that’s all I want. Some peace and quiet.”

“You got stabbed!”

“It’s a good thing I don’t remember it, then, and these pills are working wonders. I’m actually feeling pretty good.”

Tom shook his head. “I’m surprised dad isn’t insisting on spending the next few weeks with you.”

“He is. He’s just tying up some stuff back home. He’ll be here in two or three days to fuss over me like a mother hen.” Meg coughed and rubbed her throat. Thankfully, she’d only had superficial damage. Her doctor said it would be sore for a few more days, and there was an ugly ring of purple bruises around it, but it would heal. She wouldn’t be damaged for life.

“You’re lucky he missed anything vital,” Tom commented. “That would’ve been a real mess.”

Meg lightly patted her stomach and winced. “Right, because _this_ isn’t bad _at all.”_

Tom winced. “I didn’t mean it like that. You know that.”

“I know. I’m just bitchy because I was in the hospital and had to eat that horrible food and sleep in that horrible bed with the lights on all the damn time.” She crossed her arms. “I’m going to go home, turn off all the lights, close all the curtains, get into my comfy pajamas, and sleep like the dead.”

Tom reached over and patted her arm. “You do that. So long as you take your meds.”

“Pamela will wake me up.”

“I’ll call you and remind you, anyway.”

Meg raised her eyebrows at him. “When did you turn into dad?”

“You almost died, Meg! I’m _worried.”_

She slumped in her seat. “Okay, fine. Why don’t you come over after work and you and Pamela can take turns watching me sleep and yelling at me for overexerting myself, if you really want.”

“I don’t particularly want to watch you sleep. But I will be over later with some food.”

“Make sure it’s soft, and not too hot and not too cold,” she told him.

“Should you even be talking this much?”

Meg touched her throat. “Probably not. But that’s never stopped me.”

Tom shook his head and pulled into her driveway. “You sure you wanna stay here tonight? You can come back to my place. I’ll take the couch.”

“Thanks. But I want to be home.” She slid out of the car. “I’ll call you in a couple of hours, okay?”

“Alright.”

Meg nodded and carefully padded up to the house. She notice that Tom waited until she was safely inside to pull out of the driveway, and she couldn’t fault him for it. Standing in the hallway, she made sure the door was locked and sagged against it. The house was warm, and quiet, and impeccably clean.

There was a garish, striped scarf tied around the doorknob, the colors exactly matching her sweater. Meg reached down and fingered the yarn.

“Happy birthday.”

Jumping, she whirled around and pressed her back against the door, her heart hammering in her ribcage. She smiled when Castiel stepped into the hallway, a sheepish smile on his face. “Sorry. I suspect you’re jumpy after…everything.”

“What are you doing here?” Meg asked. “I thought would’ve gone into the light or moved on or whatever. Crowley’s dead. Unfinished business solved.”

“Not quite. Should you be standing? I’ll get you the chair, and then we can talk.”

“Cas, I don’t think--”

He vanished before she could finish talking. Meg stomped her foot, untied the scarf from the doorknob, and was almost to the kitchen when the computer chair from her office rolled into the room. Castiel stood behind it, guiding it with his mind.

“Meg, you should _not_ be walking around. Please, sit down, and I’ll wheel you into the kitchen. I’ll make you some oatmeal.”

She stared at him. “I can walk perfectly fine. And I don’t have any oatmeal. How the fuck did you get oatmeal?”

“Pamela brought some over. Please, Meg, let me wheel you.” The chair wiggled back and forth. “Sit, please.”

Meg grumbled but sat in the chair. “Happy?”

“Very. Hold on.”

Meg pulled her feet up and gripped the arms of the chair as Castiel pushed it forward. She had to stifle a giggle when Castiel playfully spun the chair around in a circle before gently stopping it in front of the table.

“I will make you oatmeal. You will talk while I cook.”

“Why are you still here?” Meg asked again.

“I still have unfinished business,” Castiel said as he measured out the water. “I know who killed me, but I do not know why he did.” Castiel opened the microwave, slipped the oatmeal into it, and slammed the door closed. Meg heard it hum gently as it came on.

“I know.”

“You do?”

Meg nodded. “The cops told me some of it. Pamela filled me in on the rest. Crowley, his son, his mother, and his grandparents, and a couple of extended family members formed this…cultlike thing generations ago. They called themselves The Decedents of the Ram, and that was what the triangle was supposed to represent. Apparently, the Crowley family does not have their share of good artists. Anyway, one of the rules of their organization was that, every couple of years, they have to sacrifice someone to their God.”

“Why twenty-eight years old?” Castiel asked. The microwave beeped.

Meg shrugged. “I dunno. Something about numbers and witchcraft coming together that I don’t really understand.”

“I take it they arrested his mother and son?”

“Rowena was completing her part of the ritual at home when the police arrived at her house to tell her that Crowley was dead, they found all this paraphernalia in the living room and some dead people parts and it was not pretty. They think they got everyone. Who knows who’ll actually be convicted, though.” Castiel floated her oatmeal over to her. A spoon rose from the drawer and hovered over to the table. Meg grabbed it out of the air and stirred her oatmeal.

“Do you think it’s safe to be here, then? Or to be alone?”

“I’m not alone,” Meg pointed out. “You’re still here, for some reason.”

“Do you want me to go?”

“No! I just…why are you here? Now you know why they killed you, and you know who killed you, and you got revenge. You should have moved on. Unless Pamela and I were wrong.” She shoveled some of the oatmeal into her mouth and winced. “And I can’t eat this. This is disgusting. I hate oatmeal.”

“I could make you something else,” he offered.

“You’re trying to change the subject. Why are you still here?”

Castiel sighed and sat in the chair opposite her. “I find that I still have unfinished business.”

“What the Hell is left? You know what happened to your family, and your murder got solved!”

“Meg, you need to lower your voice. Talking loudly like that cannot be good for your throat.”

“Not you, too!” Meg banged her hand down on the table and fell back in the chair, tipping it dangerously. Castiel shot his hand out and the chair pulled forward, keeping her from falling.

“You’re my new unfinished business,” he told her.

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“I like you. You’re messy and you drink far too much beer and you watch movies that quite frankly would give me nightmares if I still slept, but I enjoy being around you, and I think that you enjoy having me here, and not just because I do your laundry and find your keys. I think that is why you did not find a man to go home with the other night, even though I know Pamela wanted you to find someone to hook up with.” Castiel leaned forward, folded his hands together, and tilted his head.

Meg swallowed hard. “Yeah. I like having you here. But I can’t be your unfinished business.”

“Why not? Meg, I enjoy being here with you. I don’t want to leave you. I have…feelings. We could have something good here. I don’t want to leave in the middle of it.”

Meg blinked. “You want to _date_ me?”

“Well, yes.”

“How would that even _work?_ You’re dead and I’m not.”

“I imagine it would continue much the way it has been, except with a romantic tone. We could have movie night, or do puzzles, or play board games. We can figure everything else out later. If we decide that it does not work, the other side is open to me now, so I can move on whenever I wish. But I think that we should try.”

“But we can’t even touch.”

“If you’re worried about how our sexual life would go, don’t be. I can move objects with my mind, you know. I’m sure we can figure something out, if we decide to take that step. And if you desire the occasional tryst with a living man, I would not deny you that. I simply ask that you go to his home instead.”

She took a deep breath. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay. I’ll date you. I’ll date the ghost living in my house. I mean, this means I can shower with the bathroom door open, right?”

“I think we have reached that point.”

Meg laughed, clutching her middle when it sent pain shooting through her belly. “Oh, God, I can’t do that. I really, really gotta go to sleep.”

“We could lie in bed together with the television on, and I could make sure that you wake up in time to take your medication.”

“It’s a date. Now wheel me to the hallway and spin me around a little.”

“I have a better idea. Stand up.”

Meg shot him a skeptical look, but complied. Castiel moved to stand next to her, eyes narrowed in concentration, and positioned his arms as if he was going to pick her up. Her entire body felt cold, and her feet tingled. After a moment she felt strangely weightless and found her feet leaving the floor and her body tilting on its side. In a heartbeat she was hovering in the air with Castiel’s arms looped under her knees and back.

“Well, this is certainly romantic,” she teased as he walked her up the stairs. Castiel rolled his eyes at her and opened the door without touching it. Her bed was freshly made, something that she never did, and Castiel pulled the covers back for her and tucked her in, too.

“Thank you for solving my murder,” he said.

She smiled sleepily at him. “Thank you for saving me after I got stabbed.”

“You’re welcome. Now get some sleep. We can figure out the details of everything later.”

Meg patted the bed. “Get in. Wake me up in three hours so I can be up before Pamela gets here.”

Castiel leaned over until his lips sunk into her cheek, spreading icy tendrils through her face. It was the closest they could get to a kiss, and it made Meg shiver, but she smiled all the same.

“Goodnight, Meg,” he said.

“Goodnight, Castiel. Turn off the light?”

He did. The curtains closed on their own. The room was cold, but she was warm under the blankets, and, strangely, she felt safe with him in the room.

It would be weird, and there was a good chance it would never work, but it was something to worry about later. But she didn’t want to think about it. For now, being safe and warm and tucked up in bed with someone who cared about her was enough.


End file.
